


Our Gentle Sin

by moonside



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Timelines, Angst, Avengers: Endgame (Movie) Compliant, F/M, M/M, Post-Avengers: Endgame (Movie), Steve's Birthdays Are Hard, Stucky - Freeform, Unrequited Love, no real happy ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-05
Updated: 2019-07-05
Packaged: 2020-06-09 20:59:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19483921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonside/pseuds/moonside
Summary: For his birthday, this year, Steve learns that he’s been in love with Bucky Barnes his entire goddamn life. But it’s the ‘50s, he’s got a wife and kids, and Steve’s just realized way too goddamn late that he should hold on to Bucky and never let go. It’s too late because he already let go the moment he stepped onto that platform back in 2023.





	Our Gentle Sin

**Author's Note:**

> HAPPY BIRTHDAY STEVE, have some feels.

The first one back is hard.

He doesn’t realize the day. Steve is up to his eyeballs in paperwork—all the intel he can find. Military briefings, top secret, things that he only has access to because of Peggy. He doesn’t deserve her, he never has, and that idea is _always_ nagging at him now. It’s been the better part of a year and he keeps saying he did the right thing, but.

_But._

He’s digging through anything and everything he can, and he probably looks like a fucking madman. The office – Peggy’s office – has maps, all of his notes scattered across the desk, and it’s funny, really. Steven Grant Rogers has always been meticulous and organized, and yet here he is, a man on a mission, and he doesn’t want to think that he’s thrown himself into this because _what if._

There’s new intel about a couple of recently unearthed Hydra holes, frozen wastelands and hell on earth, and Steve needs to know – maybe it’s where they took him. He won’t stop until he finds out.

He’s been in a mad haze of research, of eating and pretending to sleep, when the reality is that he can’t stop tossing and turning. More and more, he’s pushing down the horrible revelation of _what he’s done,_ and Steve doesn’t know how he’s going to live with himself. He could go back, maybe. He could still, but—no. He’s a man of his word. He’s made his choices.

Outside, there’s a sudden _crack,_ and Steve jumps in his chair, as it slices through the silence.

“Just a firework,” Peggy says softly from the door, as she steps into the room, takes in the sight of Steve’s tense shoulders, of the exhaustion in his eyes as he lifts his head.

“… right,” and it hits Steve, suddenly, that it’s the eve of July the third. It’s almost the Fourth, and tomorrow the sky will be alight with red, blue and white. Tomorrow, there will be picnics and a parade, the sweltering, oppressive July heat doing nothing to damper the spirits of America, post-war.

“Happy early birthday,” Peggy crosses the room, perching on the edge of the desk. She’s got dark circles under her eyes, and with her makeup wiped off, the exhaustion is even more apparent. She’s working long hours, too. She and Howard are working on new projects. The military doesn’t quite wanna let her go. And, of course, Peggy is the shield between Steve and the rest of the world, and he knows that’s a _lot._

Looking at her, Steve feels a jolt of guilt that rocks him to the very core. He quickly looks away, staring down at the papers on the desk.

“… it’s my birthday,” he says, an odd revelation.

Last year, it was just him and Natasha and an empty compound. Last year, Nat had baked him a cake, had decorated it with the _worst_ patriotic decorations she could find – an eagle, wearing an absolutely awful American hat, red blue and white icing and sprinkles shaped like little stars and flags. Steve had laughed, and the depression hadn’t quite felt so oppressive.

He _misses_ he. He misses everything.

“Starting a bit early with the fireworks,” Peggy sighs, as another one _pops_ outside. She shifts from the desk, walks to the window to close it, muffling the sound just a little. “You Americans and your patriotism.”

Steve shakes his head, and he tries to laugh. All he can see, though is Nat – god, _Nat –_ and he can practically taste cake on his tongue when he blinks rapidly. It’d been the two of them, just like that, for _years;_ they’d made it into a tradition. And before that—

“You know how Americans are,” Steve says quickly, killing the thoughts before they can take over, before he’s forced to face the implications of his own actions.

“I do,” Peggy agrees, and then, “come to bed.”

The next day, the air is thick with the scent of baking pies – apple and cherry and peach – and children run through the streets with sparklers. It’s a hot as hell day, and Steve eyes the punch mournfully, wishing yet _again_ that he could feel the harsh burn of alcohol.

_Happy birthday,_ he tells himself, but when he closes his eyes, he sees red hair. He sees Nat, laughing as she records Steve blowing out the candles on his cake, both of them pretending there’s still a group chat to _send_ it to. And if he goes deeper, if he thinks back further – there’s a hot Wakandan sun, goats bleating, and a teasing voice saying, _“lookie Steve, they’re singin’ for ya…”_

Steve takes a long swig of punch anyway; he doesn’t feel it, but it’s refreshing, with the hot sun beating down. He is _old,_ but here, he’s barely even thirty.

\---

The first birthday after he gets Bucky back is somehow even harder.

They’ve moved back to New York, because Bucky’s family insisted, and where Bucky goes, Steve does too. Peggy’s a city girl, herself, and even though Steve knows she’d love to go back to London—she isn’t going to deny him this. He’s only worked for years to bring Buck home.

Of course, they’re living in a nicer part of Brooklyn now. Bucky had _insisted_ he find his own place, but with Peggy expecting now, they could use the help. And even with the protests – _“Stevie, I don’t even have an extra pair of hands to lend, I’m just a burden, pal” –_ Steve hadn’t been willing to hear it.

They’ve upsized the house, anyway, with the baby coming, with Peggy having to do more of her work from home. There’s the office, the nursery, freshly painted, and the guest room that’s been turned into Bucky’s. He’s still got night terrors, flashbacks of his time as a prisoner, all the torture. Steve had gotten to him before they’d fully brainwashed him, before Bucky Barnes was completely reassembled into the Winter Soldier, but PTSD is a bitch and sometimes he wakes in the night screaming in pain, begging them not to take the rest of his arm.

Peggy’s the real goddamn hero. She smiles through it, even though her belly’s grown big, even though she’s always uncomfortable and has enough trouble sleeping without a couple of traumatized soldiers in her house. Always, she’s been too good for them.

“Happy birthday,” Bucky says, as they sit on the rooftop of the nice little brownstone they’ve gone and bought themselves. The view of the skyline is perfect, and the fireworks explode in bright, colourful flashes. Bucky’s still adjusting, and he doesn’t get out much, not _nearly_ enough.

Fireworks are hard, too – Steve knows. The _explosions,_ they’re like war, alive and full of colour. The sound echoes in Steve’s head, and it reminds him of so much – of the war, and beyond. Alien invasions, Thanos, _failing,_ going and doing it all over again. He ran from his fears, ran from his problems, and it’s brought him _here._

“Think I’ll go to bed, boys,” Peggy says, standing and groaning at the effort. “This baby does _not_ like the noise.”

Steve moves to stand, to help his best gal back down and to bed, but she waves him off, a pointed look in Bucky’s direction, even in the darkness. “Stay. You boys enjoy yourselves. It’s _your_ birthday, Rogers.”

Steve stays put, and Bucky laughs softly. “She’s got you wrapped around her finger, _Rogers,”_ he teases. Despite the casual tone, Bucky’s all hunched over, and Steve can see the lines of tension etched across his face, the way his muscles are drawn all tight and rigid underneath the loose shirt he’s wearing. Bucky’s got some off-brand of Steve’s own serum, that much they _know,_ but the beer he’s drinking still works to some extent.

“Yeah, well, she’s my best girl,” Steve teases back, and he _means_ it, he does. He _does._ Peggy’s the love of his life, she’s carrying his child, and Steve Rogers is a good man. He’s a man of honor. He is a man of his word.

If Steve tips his head just right, he can see the light shining on Bucky’s face, lighting up his features in a soft glow of color. There’s the urge to just lean in, to curl his arm around his best friend, to pull Bucky in and protect him from the world—

“How old even _are_ you?” Bucky asks quietly, and the words are almost muffled by the rapid-fire explosions in the sky.

“Technically, a hundred and ten,” Steve replies, with a wry little smile. He forces his gaze away from Bucky, stares back at the fireworks. Downstairs, inside, Peggy is getting ready for bed. She won’t be able to sleep, not with the noise, but she doesn’t sleep well, anyway. After this, Steve will crawl into bed with her, on his side. He’ll tuck a strong arm around her and tell her she’s doing a great job, and she _is—_

“… it’s so weird,” Bucky murmurs. “Stevie, I missed _five years,_ those Hydra bastards had me, but you—”

Bucky knows, of course. There are only two people in the entire world who know the truth, and it’s Peggy Carter-Rogers and James Buchanan Barnes. The full, bitter, awful truth of it: the ice, the Avengers, the Winter Soldier and Project Insight in DC 2014. The snap. Thanos. The final battle, and that _last decision_ Steve had made, the one that he’ll carry with him forever.

“I know,” Steve sighs, “Buck, I know. Let’s pretend I’m thirty-two, okay?”

Bucky’s good hand is loosely curled around the neck of his mostly-empty beer bottle. The condensation is slick on the glass in the summer heat. Steve stares down at it, because it’s something to focus on. He doesn’t wanna watch the fireworks, suddenly. He doesn’t want to be reminded of this tangled mess of his life, doesn’t want to think about what it means.

“Why’d you do it?”

Steve wishes Bucky wouldn’t ask. But the words are spoken into existence, and Steve can’t ignore them. He’s never denied Bucky Barnes anything—or, well, he _hadn’t._ He hadn’t, not until those final days after Thanos. Steve carries a lot of things with him, but the answer to that particular question is… not one that he’s certain he ever really will be able to answer.

“I dunno, Buck,” Steve replies. He wants to reach over, to swipe the beer from Bucky’s loose grip, but what good will it do? He can’t feel the alcohol. It’s a goddamn _lifetime_ ago that he’d been drinking alone in that bar, after he’d lost Bucky the first time. It’d only been the _first time,_ and if he could undo it, if he could—

“I wanted to fix things,” Steve says, and that’s as good an answer as he can come up with. “I… I wanted to save you. I wanted to make things work, with Pegs. I wanted to _change_ all the bad things that happened—”

“That’s the thing, though,” and Bucky interrupts him, sudden and fierce and intense, speaking with a fervor that comes outta nowhere, that leaves Steve breathless and reeling. “You didn’t fix _anything,_ Stevie. None of this –“ and he gestures aimlessly in the air, still holding his beer – “ _nothing_ here would exist, if you hadn’t gone back and created it. It’s insanity, Stevie, and if anyone else told me any of this bullshit, I woulda laughed, but…”

Overhead, the fireworks are louder, flashier, brighter, as they shoot off in never ending bursts. It’s the finale, Steve realizes, and he refuses to look at Bucky, pretends instead that he’s interested in watching the lights in the sky.

“Remember,” Bucky says, and his voice is softer now, tinged with nostalgia, “when I convinced you that the fireworks were for your birthday, Steve? That all of this, it’s just for _you.”_

Steve laughs; he remembers. And god, it hurts, because there’s an echo of the same words said to him, a lifetime ago, years and years into the future. His birthday, and the hot Wakanda night, and his good friends, T’challa and Shuri, laughing with the red, white and blue fireworks bursting into the sky.

_“Since you cannot go home, we thought we would bring it to you,”_ T’challa had explained, and Steve’s heart had caught in his chest at the words. Home, he’d thought, is right here, is where everything feels right. And at Bucky’s side, everything had felt right. Until it hadn’t been.

Until five years – until it’d been _too much._

“Yeah,” Steve says fondly, realizing he’s done that thing again, where he gets lost in the past – the future – whatever. It’s all the same thing, anyway. He can’t go back, because he already has. There’s really only one way forward, now, and it’s with both Peggy and Bucky. He’s a real lucky guy, and Steve knows it. It’s just, sometimes, his heart aches, sometimes he thinks he did all of this wrong.

“You’ve always been a punk,” Steve aims a playful punch at Bucky’s shoulder, and he ignores the little jolt of electricity at the contact. He pushes it aside, and they watch the sky as the fireworks end, as cheers echo into the night, and the parties continue on way too late. But that voice, Bucky’s words, _nothing would exist if he hadn’t created it,_ it resonates.

He’s been horribly selfish.

\---

The moment Steve _learns_ just how fucking dumb he’s been is yet another birthday. They mark the passage of time, and Steve doesn’t age as fast as he should. He’s _aging,_ that much is certain, but it’s slow and steady. Already, time is starting to show its mark on Peggy. There are the beginning streaks of grey in her hair—she works hard, and they’ve got the kids now. Steve does his best to help, but there’s a nagging voice in the back of his head that thinks just maybe this nuclear family, suburbia bullshit—well. That cute little cabin in the woods had worked for Tony, but maybe Steve had romanticized it a little.

Bucky made cake for his birthday this year.

Bucky Barnes still lives with him, and Steve’s kids _love_ him. As a joke, Steve had gotten them calling him ‘Uncle James’ because Bucky _loathes_ it, and it makes him smile, watchin’ just how good his best friend is with his family. Sometimes, Steve wonders if Bucky’s ever gonna settle down, if he’ll marry a nice girl and have kids of his own. That window is narrowing, though, and even if Bucky’s gotten his issues mostly under control—there’s a deep sorrow that runs between them, whenever their eyes meet.

Bucky’s made cake, and it’s Steve’s fortieth birthday. He’s given up on counting the _other_ years, convinced himself that they don’t count. He still dreams about Natasha sometimes. He still thinks of the birthdays they had, all the years that they were on the run. He shouldn’t consider his fugitive years the _best years of his life,_ because now he’s got Peggy and a family and Bucky, he’s got it _all._

But there’s still the echoes in his mind – Sam clapping a hand on his shoulder, Nat presenting the awful cake she’d managed to bake, with Bucky’s help, of course. Wanda had laughed until she was crying, and Clint had made snide comments over Facetime, with the house arrest thing and all. The jet parked on the edge of Bucky’s little farmhouse in Wakanda was out of sight, and for a while, they’d been able to pretend that the rest of the world didn’t exist at all.

That’s a lifetime ago, though, and it’s only an echo of things to come, now. It’ll never even _happen_ in this timeline, Steve knows, because he’s fixed everything as much as he could. He’s busy, and he’ll never stop _trying_ to fix things.

But right now, it’s his fortieth birthday, and Bucky’s made cake, and Steve thinks it’s perfect.

“You didn’t have to,” Steve says, but Bucky just laughs.

“I love Peggy, she’s a woman of _many_ talents, Stevie, but bakin’ ain’t one of them,” he says, and he means nothing by it. The words are true. Bucky’s always been _amazing_ at this, and god, Steve’s mouth is watering as he stares down the cake. The icing’s a bit sloppy – the prototype arm that Howard’s fitted him with isn’t the greatest, but it’s a vast improvement over being one-armed. It still looks good, though, and the little imperfections? They’re endearing, just like Bucky.

“The hell did I do to deserve you?” Steve asks, and it’s teasing, but—

Bucky’s eyes widen a little, and Steve’s breath catches, sudden and frantic. There’s a moment where Steve’s gaze shifts from the cake on the kitchen counter to the man that’s propped up against it, and a revelation happens. There’s the tiniest smudge of icing on Bucky’s cheek, and Steve can’t help himself—

He lifts his hand, before he can stop it, thumb wiping away the tiny smear of baby-blue icing. It catches and drags over Bucky’s skin, sticky sugar clinging to the bit of rough stubble. There’s memories there – of two kids, too poor and hopeless, with eyes only for each other and putting up one hell of a façade about it. Memories of stolen moments after Romania, before he’d dropped Bucky off in Wakanda. And then… Wakanda, god, the sunsets and sunrises and the two of them standing _too close._

“Steve,” Bucky says, and Steve blinks back into himself.

He’s got Bucky pressed back against the counter, his big arms framing either side of the other man’s body. Steve’s fingers are sticky from icing, and he’s leaning so close, their noses are practically touching. He’s breathing heavily, his mind is spinning, and suddenly, Steve _knows._ Suddenly—

“God,” Steve says, “the hell have I done, Buck?”

Bucky doesn’t answer, not at first. His eyes bore into Steve’s, long and searching. The heat is rising between them – the house is cool, because they’ve long since invested in an AC unit. But it doesn’t matter, because the July heat exists within Steve’s body, desperately trying to escape, sparking in the spaces they’re touching, spreading into the world beyond. It’d be so easy for Steve to reach out, to _touch_ Bucky. God, Peggy’s in the other room, and Steve loves her, but—

_"Stevie,"_ Bucky starts to say, and the tone of his voice, the intensity of it, the look in his eyes as he leans in, closes the distance between them, it terrifies Steve, it makes the whole world begin to spin, makes his lungs seize up like he's an asthmatic kid again, and... 

“Daddy!”

Then, a high-pitched voice speaks, and the moment shatters, slips between Steve’s fingers, _broken._ His daughter bounds into the room, throws herself forward, and Steve’s guilty arms catch her and hold on for dear life.

“Sarah,” he chides, “you shouldn’t be in here.”

“Uncle James promised _cake,”_ Sarah Rogers says with a pout, and it makes Steve smile, despite everything. The moment is gone. Bucky’s expression has shifted, and if he’s feeling any guilt, he hides it expertly. For a split second, everything fell down between them, but now it’ll be built back up – stronger, solid and unyielding, because they both know. They _can’t_ touch this.

For his birthday, this year, Steve learns that he’s been in love with Bucky Barnes his entire goddamn life. But it’s the ‘50s, he’s got a wife and kids, and Steve’s just realized way too goddamn late that he should hold on to Bucky and never let go. It’s too late because he already let go, the moment he stepped onto that platform back in 2023.

\---

Steve doesn’t talk about it again until 2024, when he celebrates his hundred and sixth birthday. Or, of course, the big one-eight-four depending on his mood, depending on what reality he wants to accept. Peggy’s long dead. He’s got grandkids, but they’re not _here._ They aren’t in this timeline.

He doesn’t expect Bucky to show up.

It’s late, and Steve is enjoying the fireworks. He lives in a little flat in Brooklyn now, one with a balcony that he likes to sit on and draw. Sam had stopped by earlier. So had Pepper, with her daughter, and Steve loves her something fierce—he only wishes that he’d gotten to know her better, during those five years that are an entire lifetime ago.

Steve is sitting in the park across the street from his place, because it offers a great view of the fireworks, and the fireworks… they remind him of simpler times.

Bucky sits down next to him wordlessly, and Steve does his best to mask his surprise. He’s gotten real good at that, with all the years of practice, but it still hits him, head-on, just how much Bucky _hasn’t_ changed. It’s been a lifetime since that platform, and yet— this is the Bucky he remembers fondly. This is the Bucky that smells like plums and looks like the Wakanda sun, long-hair braided and a carefree smile on his face, one that takes Steve back to the 30s.

Funny, he’s got a whole lifetime of domestic memories with a very different Bucky, and yet…

“I didn’t expect to see you,” Steve says quietly, underneath the loud burst of fireworks in the sky. They explode, the vibrant red, white, and blue that’s traditional. There’s other colors in there too, though – fireworks that explode like hearts, yellow ones that twist and swirl and leave bright streaks across the sky.

“I didn’t think I’d come,” Bucky replies bluntly, and Steve winces, but he appreciates it. He doesn’t see Bucky much – and he doesn’t blame him. After all, _who_ could ever blame Bucky for feeling the way he does?

“I’m glad you did,” Steve says.

Bucky pauses. He leans back against the bench and tips his head back, and replies, chewing his lip awkwardly, “I don’t know if I am.”

Steve nods, because what else can he say? He deserves this. His heart hurts. Even though he’s _old_ now, he doesn’t quite feel it. The serum has changed him in so many ways, and even if he finally looks like an old man, he’s in top shape. Maybe a little slower, a good deal shakier, and maybe his crystal-clear vision is _just_ starting to weaken, but for a man close to two hundred, Steve’s doing remarkably well. But with Bucky, he feels his age. With Bucky here next to him—the burden of everything that’s happened weighs him down. It presses him to the very ground.

“You don’t have to stay,” Steve _wants_ Bucky here, more than anything, but he knows he gave up the right to ask. He lost _any_ right to ask a single goddamn thing of Bucky, the moment he’d chosen what he did.

Bucky sighs. “Course I do. I can’t leave my best pal, not on his birthday. Even if he _is_ a total fuckin’ idiot.”

There’s a part of Steve that wants to tease _language,_ but god, he’s left that image of himself behind so long ago. The shield is gone – passed on to Sam. The legacy is already long-forgotten in the minds of those who care. To the outside world, Steve Rogers died fighting Thanos. He intends to keep it that way; it’s for the best.

“Thanks,” is all that Steve says.

If the rest of the world knew what he’d done, would Captain America still be a _hero?_ Steve doesn’t know anymore.

A particularly large firework bursts into the sky overhead. It’s starkly white, massive and spreading through the darkness in streams of light that spread in every direction, before slowly drifting back down to earth. Steve watches. Next to him, Bucky’s twisting his hands in his lap, vibranium fingers seamlessly tangled with flesh ones.

“… can I ask you something?” Bucky asks, and Steve can hear the hesitation in his voice, instantly. He _knows_ Bucky, even after all this time.

“Of course,” Steve replies, but he doesn’t want to answer. He doesn’t _want_ Bucky’s questions, but he’d been alone on his birthday, and now his oldest friend is here.

“Was it worth it?” Bucky asks, and Steve feels the air leave his lungs. His chest aches, and tightens, and god, he doesn’t want to answer. He tips his head back, stares up at the sky. More fireworks explode in a rainbow of colors. They’re loud, the frantic kind that crackle and pop and fizzle out of existence in the blink of an eye, interspersed with the gigantic ones that burst _high._ It’s beautiful. The fireworks of the future are amazing.

“… it had to be worth it,” Steve picks his words carefully. Peggy had absolutely been worth it. She’s amazing; she’s so much better than Steve deserves. He’s proud of his kids. He _loves_ them, fiercely, and what kind of person would he be, if he regretted that? And yet…

_They wouldn’t have existed, if he hadn’t made the choice he did,_ and somehow, decades and decades later, it resonates.

“I couldn’t have you,” Steve says, suddenly, before he can stop himself. But the words fall out of his mouth, in the moments of silence between fireworks, and there’s no going back. There’s no undoing it.

Bucky doesn’t look at him. He falls silent, too, and for a few blessed minutes, as they watch the fireworks, he thinks maybe the other man didn’t hear. Or, hell, maybe Bucky is just gonna ignore it. That’s the best course of action, after all.

But then – as the finale starts, as a constant, steady stream of red-white-blue shoots into the sky, vibrant American fire painting the whole sky alive with color, Bucky responds.

“ ‘course you could have. Just had to ask, Stevie. But you always—you always acted before you thought, huh?”

On Steve’s birthday this year, he learns that Bucky Barnes had _always_ loved him back. He learns that in every reality that’s ever been, that will ever exist, James Buchanan Barnes has been the love of his life, and it’s come way too late. There’s no going back.

**Author's Note:**

> i wanted to write something happy but then I saw Far From Home and was reminded viscerally that this is the ending we were dealt, so.
> 
> i'm on twitter @thatdest , thanks for reading! <3


End file.
